All the King's Horses, and All the King's Men
by we've been had
Summary: In some stories, the tragedy isn't that there just aren't any happy endings at all. The tragedy is that there are.


The ocean is an endless loop out there. It ebbs and it flows. The exact same constant, churning, grey stream of coding as the sky. Distantly: thunder carried on the slow wind. Lightning. A brewing storm. Symbolic, really. And just like the real thing it melts in the horizon. There's nothing after it. Drops off the flat edge of this little world, as vast as it seemed. Here There Be Monsters territory. Partition ends. Roll the credits, the show's over. Everybody go home. Nothing more to reach. Nothing more to see. No more to fathom. There will be no sunset. No sunrise. That's all over and done with.

And it's as close to the real thing as Clay will get.

"Not as nice as it could be, is it?" he asks.

Desmond jumps. Not unexpected. Clay had simply chosen to compile himself into a physical representation at that moment, sudden. Sitting on the wet sand next to him. Appearing out of the not-air. Cross-legged, chin in the palm of his hand, in turn pressing the elbow on that arm into his thigh. Desmond was almost curled up. Tight. Chin on his knees, arms wrapped around himself. At least, he _had_ been.

"Boo," Clay says, without missing a beat.

"Jesus!" Desmond snapped. "A little warning next time, will you!"

"Aren't you supposed to be doing something?"

"I'm not allowed to take breaks?"

"Do you have time to?"

Desmond was leveling a flat look at him. That's the thing Clay liked about him. He wasn't hiding anything. Too tired to. It made reading him that much easier. Then again, Clay was good at it. Reading people, that is. From the way Desmond's eyes turned down to how he unfurled himself to stretch out his legs. No weaknesses here. Look how strong I am. Look how responsible I am. Clay could have laughed if he didn't feel for him. Hard not to. Hard not to want to break down for someone who won't let themselves fall apart. Cry for someone that won't cry for themselves.

That's also gone and passed away.

Clay's mouth curls up. Full of teeth.

"So what do I owe the please?" Desmond mutters, finally, letting out a heavy breath and casting his gaze back out to the ocean.

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"I'm not allowed to take breaks?" Echoed. A reminder.

One that makes Desmond wince. Clay hadn't intended it that way, but he's not going to apologize. He's past apologizing. 'I'm sorry' doesn't fix anything anymore. He's not sorry about distracting the Animus. He's not sorry about the Nexus. He's not sorry. Why should he be? Why should he be sorry at all when no one else was?

Well... almost no one.

Clay doesn't say anything else. He's watching Desmond watch the water. He doesn't know what Desmond's thinking, wouldn't pretend that he did, no matter how good of a judge on someone's character he liked to believe he (still) is. The sort of thoughts that are world-heavy. Heart-weary. What isn't these days?

When Desmond does speak up, it's slow and deliberate. He's internally debating the ethics of it. Of talking to someone who might not make much sense. _You're crazy and no one understands crazy and I don't want to talk or be your kind of crazy_. Or Clay could just be projecting. Either could be true at this point.

"Do _you_ regret anything?" Desmond asks with that slow, conscious effort of his. He's not used to getting personal with people, Clay knows it.

Yet still, the question takes him off guard. Just when Clay thought he had Desmond all figured out. It's not meant to stab or carve. It isn't but it does. Regret? _Regret _anything? Oh, there was a whole lifetime or twenty worth of regret under his (fake) skin. Settled into bones and nerves. Pushed like pins. Regret and fury and Clay thinks he can smell something sweet and floral. Something carried from the garden that she liked so much. Where she always sat, reading. Always reading. Ah, she was a sight to see. Dark and beautiful and sharp where it mattered. And when she looks up, there's the ghost of a smile against her lips.

He regrets leaving her.

He regrets the trip through the swamps.

He regrets the sound of

But that's not what Desmond's asking.

It takes a moment for Clay to figure it out. It's not that he has trouble keeping his memories together here. It's amazing what kind of control the Animus can give when you're not tied down to a body. It's just... it's just that there are things he wants to experience again. Wants to see again. Wants to touch and taste and hold to him, close, until it becomes a part of him. Clay isn't restricted the same way Desmond is. He _is_ the Animus, now. The base line of it. But that's a cold, tiring, lonely existence. It's not real. Never will be.

"Regret?" A scoff. Clay had lost his grin for a long moment. It came back. For a few seconds. "I think people regret a lot of things," he says and leans back on his hands. Doesn't look at Desmond.

He doesn't need to. He knows that frown is there.

"That's not what I asked." Desmond's stern with it.

"I know."

"And?"

"_And_ I regret not taking the opportunities I should have."

A pause. "That's it?"

"No," Clay says, laughing again.

"What else?"

"Nu-uh, Desmond- you asked me what I regretted. I gave you an answer." Clay wags a finger at him. But, he supposes he could give him a freebie. Desmond doesn't want to get personal and Clay doesn't want to get personal with him. It would rub him raw. An unforunate double-edged sword.

He didn't want to be left alone, but he didn't want to get to know the only other person trapped here with him. It would make it too hard. Too hard to let go, after all the trouble of getting Desmond here. What? Did people think the partition was successful _just_ because of Rebecca? To an extent. She did the work for him. Clay was just the one that shut the rest of the doors. But as the saying goes, when one door closes...

Desmond grunted an irritated sigh.

Clay sobers, then. "I regret having to do it."

A long silence.

"I regret having to die for it," Clay repeats, adding more to that statement. His body hums (in remembrance of an ache) and he has to ignore it. (Like the code commands holding him together want to blast themselves apart at the remembered emotions.) "It's a worthy cause. I'll do it again."

Clay knows it. He will. It's coming. And he's scared of it. He's scared of what might happen. He's scared that it might hurt (which it will, emotionally, mentally, but not physically) and of the fact that it'll be the end of the line. End of the road. Dead end, no where else to go. But if Desmond winces again, Clay pretends not to notice. Not to care.

"I regret leaving things unsaid when I know I _should_ say something about them."

It hangs in the air.

Honestly, it's maddeningly hilarious.

Desmond doesn't know about so many, many things.

It's not his place to.

Not because Clay thinks Desmond can't handle it. It's because Clay thinks (knows) he, himself, can't handle it. It's taking everything. It's taking everything not to beg and plead for Desmond not to leave him here. To hang those little tid bits in front of Desmond's nose, lead him right to the words, agreements, promises that he wants out of Desmond. What if he _could_ go with him? Get out of here? Not die (again) for what was right? What if Clay _could_ let go of this pressure between hollow bones? Like he might fly apart at any moment simply because the galaxies and lifetimes between them are too much to carry, and it's a weight he doesn't want anymore. Clay doesn't want it, but he has it. So, if he's mean enough. Harsh enough. Insistent enough, he's sure he could convince Desmond to let him out. It wouldn't be hard.

Or so he thinks.

Clay could be wrong. It's just that Desmond's so much more easily lead by the nose than people think. Determined, but once you get him on the path, he charges on because he doesn't want to know what else there is outside of it.

That, also, could be projection.

He's not sure which.

"I see," is all Desmond says about it. He meets Clay's studying gaze for a moment. Hesitates. "...what?"

"Why the sudden interest?" Clay returns. Just as suddenly. He's curious. So sue him, if you could find the lawyers to.

"Nothing, I just-"

"You just what, Desmond?"

"...I just wanted to know. That's all. I figured..." There's that hesitation again.

All of Clay's insides turn inward. Painfully. He wants to shake Desmond. He wants to shake him and tell him to stop it. Tell him to get out of here. Go right back into the Nexus. Put that stupid, well-meaning head of yours _back together_. Go. _Do it. Don't end up like me, don't, it only get's worse from here_.

It dawns on Clay, then, _why_ he doesn't want to get too personal.

"You _do_ want to take me with you, don't you?" he asks, slowly. Carefully. Looking Desmond dead in the eye. Everything is there. Horror, hope, want. Clay still wants to shake him. Even _more_ when the moment passes and Desmond stares at a rock that's washed up on the beach.

Desmond shrugs.

"Maybe."

_But..._

Left unsaid. Just to taunt Clay, unintentional or not.

Who lets it go and just rolls onto his back. Stares up and up. He can't make sense of it, even if it's obvious: Desmond _wants_ to pull him out of here. Wants to. He knew Desmond would. That's doesn't make it form any coherence to Clay. They both know that it isn't going to happen. They _both know_. So why? Why bring it up? Why bother? Why ask anything even remotely pertaining to regret at all? Desmond, are you trying to make sense of it yourself, or are you actually deliberating finding a way? Where are your thoughts, Desmond? Aren't you supposed to be saving the world and not worrying about those that are pushing you up so you don't have to do it yourself?

"Don't be stupid, Desmond."

Clay smiles.

Closes his eyes.

The tide isn't coming it. It never will. But he can still feel it against him. Ready to just let it swallow him. That's all it would take. One long swim across it to start over. Put it all behind him. Reconstruct his life around him, or maybe live someone else's again. Someone normal. Someone pleasant, who did and said most of the right things. Clay could swim. And maybe he would sink, but he wouldn't drown. Wouldn't let himself. He could get there if he wanted to. And as it was, maybe he was trying to. After all, he was continually plowing through his own mind. The terrible shattered thing that it is- which is a good thing. It keeps the Animus busy. It has such a hard time keeping up with _him _that it doesn't have the capacity in this limited state to keep track of Desmond.

That's what saving the world is about, isn't it? Starting over?

Clay doesn't let Desmond have a chance to respond: "You said it yourself, didn't you? It's not going to happen."

He can't help but take a shuddering breath.

"Besides, there's not any more room in your noggin anyways. But, hey, if you're just going to sit around, doing nothing, then I guess I can take the space the Animus frees up." Clay's all teeth again. Harsh teeth, sharp teeth, grinning like a wolf. The thought is freeing. A body, _any body_, to call his own. "It's not like you're going to be using it after that."

He's gone, then. Before Desmond knows it, before any words come up. Leaving the island beind, leaving Desmond to kick, frustrated, at the sand. (Does he want to shout at the sea of his own mind? Or was it Clay's? Or was it anyone's at all?) Disappearing in fractured pieces. So he doesn't have hear it. Clay's tired. Desmond's tired.

Clay is no knight in shining armor. He's never been one for valor.

Desmond is no damsel in distress. He's capable and just needs to open his eyes to it. He doesn't need _saving_, he needs a push back to the real world. He'll figure it out.

Past that, there's no use in pretending. No use in trying to fool anyone. Clay doesn't have Desmond's fortitude to do what needs to be done anymore. He did once. Once. Then again, that's not what the point was, now was it?

One last look. One last look outward to the small swatch of beach (to Desmond) before he pulls himself back into his own memories.

The ocean is an endless loop out there. It ebbs and it flows. The exact same constant, churning, grey stream of coding as the sky. Distantly: thunder carried on the slow wind. Lightning. A brewing storm. Symbolic, really. And just like the real thing it melts in the horizon. There's nothing after it. Drops off the flat edge of this little world, as vast as it seemed. Here There Be Monsters territory. Partition ends. Roll the credits, the show's over. Everybody go home. Nothing more to reach. Nothing more to see. No more to fathom. There will be no sunset. No sunrise.

That's all over and done with.


End file.
